d forever. So he decided that he would consult only the
best authority.

He got the names of the best-known works on the subject from a
bookstore, and found that the author of one of these books was
practicing in Paris as a specialist. Two or three days elapsed before he
was able to get up the courage to call on this doctor. And oh, the shame
and horror of sitting in his waiting-room with the other people, none of
whom dared to look each other in the eyes! They must all be afflicted,
George thought, and he glanced at them furtively, looking for the
various symptoms of which he had read. Or were there, perhaps, some like
himself--merely victims of a foolish error, coming to have the hag of
dread pulled from off their backs?

And then suddenly, while he was speculating, there stood the doctor,
signaling to him. His turn had come!

CHAPTER II

The doctor was a man about forty years of age, robust, with every
appearance of a strong character. In the buttonhole of the frock coat
he wore was a red rosette, the decoration of some order. Confused and
nervous as George was, he got a vague impression of the physician's
richly furnished office, with its bronzes, marbles and tapestries.

The doctor signaled to the young man to be seated in the chair before
his desk. George complied, and then, as he wiped away the perspiration
from his forehead, stammered out a few words, explaining his errand. Of
course, he said, it could not be true, but it was a man's duty not
to take any chances in such a matter. "I have not been a man of loose
life," he added; "I have not taken so many chances as other men."

The doctor cut him short with the brief remark that one chance was all
that was necessary. Instead of discussing such questions, he would make
an examination. "We do not say positively in these cases until we have
made a blood test. That is the one way to avoid the possibility of
mistake."

A drop of blood was squeezed out of George's finger on to a little glass
plate. The doctor retired to an adjoining room, and the victim sat
alone in the office, deriving no enjoyment from the works of art which
surrounded him, but feeling like a prisoner who sits in the dock with
his life at stake while the jury deliberates.

The doctor returned, calm and impassive, and seated himself in his
office-chair.

"Well, doctor?" asked George. He was trembling with terror.

"Well," was the reply, "there is no doubt whatever."

George wiped his